


Never be Forgot

by greerwatson



Series: ITOWverse:  Autumn Holidays 2010 [11]
Category: RENAULT Mary - Works
Genre: Gen, Guy Fawkes Night, ITOWverse, Metafiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-10
Updated: 2010-11-10
Packaged: 2018-05-27 15:12:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6289522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greerwatson/pseuds/greerwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Charis is taken to the Bonfire Night celebrations, her feelings are definitely ... mixed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never be Forgot

To Charis’s surprise, her mother insisted she take her nap earlier than usual that day.  There was going to be a ceremony that evening—not one of the women’s rituals, but something that her mother said they both should attend in that _other_ place they sometimes visited.  When Charis woke, and her mother helped her dress for the event, it became clear that it must be cold over there:  her mother layered on all her winter clothes.

It was nearly dark when they left, a little family party of three.  They arrived to find a large group of strangers milling around outside the clubhouse.  Uncle Alexias escorted the women of his household over to a group of ladies from other books before going off to join his friends.  There were no children with the group besides Charis; and the women hung back discreetly at the edge of the crowd, looking round a little nervously at the numbers of strangers from Modern novels. 

Charis was shy of strangers, too; but, by now, she took for granted the odd dress of other visitors to this land.  Down by her mother’s knee, though, she couldn’t see what was going on, only that the attention of the crowd was more or less on something somewhere on the other side.  The women talked quietly over her head; and she clung to her mother, a fold of cloth tight in her hand, lest she somehow be swept away as someone brisked past.  She looked up, and caught her mother’s glance down; but then someone said something, and her mother looked away; and Charis was left to wonder when the ceremony would be over, so that they might go home.

After a while, the Secretary came over.  “Let me take Charis up front,” she suggested.  “She’ll be quite safe.  There’s a group of children up there, closer to the bonfire.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Charis’s mother, reluctantly.

“So she can see better,” said the Secretary firmly. 

Charis, too, was reluctant.  Not because she was nervous of the Secretary, of course; but the other children might be strangers.  Also, it was getting quite dark; and she was not used to being out after sunset.  Nevertheless, no one asked her; and she was taken by the hand and led away.  The Secretary wound her way through a forest of legs, and finally (with a few bright words about leaving her to make friends) abandoned Charis to a group of shadowy short figures. 

At first, in the gloom, Charis could not quite make out who the other youngsters were, though she could see from the shape of their clothes that one was a girl slightly bigger than she was.  But then the strange girl spoke to the boy next to her (who must be her brother); and Charis recognized the voice.  These were the children with whom she had played last summer, and they had had a marvellous time in the pond.  So she piped up, and found that the others both remembered her, too; so _that_ was all right.  The boys shepherded Charis in between them, with their sister, where she could be seen to be under their protection; and all eyed the activity near the pyre.  A group of Modern characters—recognisable even in the gloom, with their trousers (so much skinnier in the legs than the barbarian sort)—hung around, talking.  Then one lit a torch and thrust it in to set the wood ablaze.  As the flames mounted, very swiftly, a golden red glow brightened the area where they stood, and darkened the shadows beyond.

It was now possible to make out, all too clearly, that a man was bound to a stake at the top. 

A dead man?  Was this a funeral?  Though his body was not lying in state.  Also, her mother had not _said_ that this was a funeral; and for a pyre like this, it would have to be someone very important. 

Perhaps it was a sacrifice.  The thought of sacrificing a living man, as in myth, horrified Charis.  To _burn_ someone in sacrifice was even worse than the fate of Iphigenia.  Burning _hurt_ :  she had burned her hand once on the brazier; so she _knew_ it hurt.  And he did not scream.  (Perhaps he _could_ not scream?  Perhaps he was gagged, and tied so he could not even struggle.)  Charis could not bear to watch; yet she could not leave, either. 

As she stood in silent despair, a strange grown-up took pity on her.  “Do you know the story?” he asked.  “You’re from one of the Greek novels, aren’t you?”

Charis was not supposed to talk to strangers.  She looked up mutely at the man stooping to talk to her.

“Which book are you from?”

She wasn’t sure.  She was only barely aware that she _was_ from a book.

“It’s all right, dear,” the figure said soothingly.  “Are you scared of the bonfire?”

“The mmmmman,” she stammered, and pointed.

“The guy?”  Terrifyingly, the stranger patted her on her head.  “It’s only a sort of figure made of old clothes.  It’s not real, you know.”

She blinked fearfully, and whispered, “He’s burning.”

“Yes, but it’s not a real person.  Just ... like a doll.  A _big_ doll.”

Charis would not have liked to have anyone burn _her_ doll; but clearly this was better than burning a live person, so she nodded.

“Aren’t the flames pretty?” asked the stranger.  “A bonfire is a lot of fun, don’t you think?”

Not at all sure of this, Charis could only nod obediently, and turn her head back to look at the blazing pyre.  It collapsed, taking the figure with it in a burst of loud cracking noises.  She started in terror, and clasped her hands over her mouth to stifle her scream.  Over her head, she heard the adults talking.

“How old is she, do you know?”

“She’s far too young to be here on her own.”

“She’s with us,” said one of the brothers; but was ignored.

“Someone must have brought her.”

At this, Charis turned and looked up.  “My mother brought me; and my Uncle Alexias.”

“Alexias?  Alexias from _The Last of the Wine_?”  The speaker turned to one of the others.  “Someone go and find him.  I think he went over to join the philosophers.”

“No!”  Charis was definite.  “I mustn’t be a nuisance.”

Someone knelt by her.  “You’re not being a nuisance, sweetie.  We’re just worried about you.” 

“She’s being a baby,” said the bigger of her friend’s brothers scornfully, annoyed at the attention she was drawing to them.  “It’s all right,” he added, as the adults turned to him.  “We’re taking care of her.” 

Somewhere further away there were more loud bangs.  They drew the attention of most of the crowd; but Charis was too overwhelmed to care.

“The fireworks are starting,” someone said.

“The fireworks can wait,” came a tart response.

But the other children interrupted, well brought up though they were.  “No, she’s with us.  We’re taking care of her.”

“Well, all right,” said the most concerned of the adults.  “But keep an eye on her.  She’s—”  She turned to Charis.  “How old are you, dear?”

“Five.”

“Well, you stick close to the other boys and girls.  And—” she turned to the others “—take her to see the fireworks, and don’t let her get scared by the noise.  You understand?”

They didn’t really, Charis could tell:  none of them knew what ‘fire works’ could be, any more than she did.  But then a strange boy broke in, “I’ll take ’em, miss.  Here you lot, come with me.”  And, before Charis quite made out what was going on, the group of Greek children were whisked into the care of a big boy—one who, from his clothes, had to come from a Modern novel—and directed towards a large empty field, around which all the adults seemed to be thronging, kept back from the field itself by a group of Modern characters who clearly had the authority to order people where to stand.

The boy, who informed them over his shoulder that his name was Mervyn, wormed them all through the crowd up to the front; and, when anyone turned to complain, said with cheeky certainty, “Little’uns to the front, right?  Give’em a chance to get a good look, right?”

There was a sudden hiss, and a flare of green light ahead—brilliant at its heart, casting a strange glow over the crowd.  The children broke through to the front; and she saw it, like nothing she had ever seen before.  Fire she knew; but not shooting up, and not green.  It lasted quite a while, and then got lower, and suddenly sputtered and went out.  After a moment, a different spectacle started:  this one had a shower of golden sparks, like a fountain of fireflies.  Again, she could see the crowd by its light, the shadows odd on their faces, so that she couldn’t really recognize anyone, even though she had to know them—her uncle was here somewhere, and her mother, after all.

Charis looked around, trying to see her mother.  Perhaps there, to the side, among a group of women?  The gloom and shadows made everything strange.

There was a sharp nudge on her arm; and she looked back.  By the dying fountain, she could see a man run forward with a match in his hand, and lean down.  Then suddenly, there was a whistling sound.

“Look up!” cried Mervyn; and Charis craned up to the sky.  A sudden pop heralded a glorious shower of silver sparkles, arching out like the branches of a willow, wider and falling, until they faded slowly.

Falling stars, she thought, and made a wish.

Another whistle, another pop; and another shower, but this time of golden wriggles, like fantastic pollywogs fleeing in a sea of night.

They, too, faded.  Charis continued to look up, until a new brilliance made her turn back to ground level.  Another flare, but one that changed colour twice before it faded.  That was followed by a mysterious spiralling fizzle that sparked round and round in circles for a long, fascinating time, before being replaced in turn by a pair of fountains in brilliant purple, which were followed by puffing pops of stars.

The display went on, glory following glory; and Charis hoped that it could go on forever.  But eventually it ended with a fabulous series of heavenly showers in colours never seen on any earthly willow; and the last sparks faded, and night came back dark.

Even as she felt sad it was over, she was breathless with the memory.

What would come now?  The grown-ups were shifting from the close-packed arc round the parade ground; and, after a few minutes of milling confusion, Charis realized that slaves were coming round with trays of food and drink.  She was shy; but their guide boldly called to a ‘waiter’, and saw that all his charges had food—strange food that was tasty, but eclipsed by the falling stars in her mind.

“Haven’t had a sausage roll in I dunno how long,” Mervyn said obscurely through the food.  He swigged from a mug of hot spiced apple juice, and suggested Charis try some of the ‘toffee’.  This proved to be a hard sweet, which she sucked until it softened, and then bit into fragments which stuck to her teeth.

She did not notice the man approach until he was standing over them.  “Would you children like to have some fun now you’ve eaten?” he asked.  “We’ve some packets of sparklers and crackers we saved.”

Mervyn clearly understood what was meant, and lit up.  So they all trouped after—Charis staying as close as she could to the familiar brothers—and headed towards the house.  There, on a section of lawn somewhat illumined by the light from the windows, were other children, most of whom were clearly from Modern books.  Mervyn promptly abandoned his charges to join them.  They were making loud bangs and flashes, and holding fizzling sparkly things, not unlike the glorious ceremonial ‘fire works’, but smaller.   _Much_ smaller, she realized.  Smaller ... and for _them_.

There was quite enough light for her to recognize the young Persian king, Alexander, whom she had met here fairly often.  He was jumping up and down in great excitement, intent on something on the ground that banged and flashed repeatedly.  The two Greek brothers grabbed eagerly at their own chance to bang and flash, and their sister followed them.

“Now then, would you like to have a go?”

She looked up at the man who had brought them over.  He knelt down to her level.

“I’m Andrew.  Uncle Andrew, you can call me.  Your friends will be all right.  The others will look after them.  The question is _you_.  I’m not sure if it’s a good idea—you really aren’t old enough—but I don’t like leaving you out.”

Charis found her voice.  “ _He’s_ there,” she pointed out, a finger towards the little King.

The man smiled.  “Yes, that’s true.  He’s having the time of his life.  But—you may notice—someone else is actually lighting them for him.”

He hesitated, and then said, “Wait here,” and went off to have a word with one of the others.  After a while, he came back with a packet in his hand.  He put it down, and knelt beside her again. 

“Let’s have a look at you,” he said.  He glanced her over, and then insisted on tying back her hair with a bit of string, and taking off the shawl her mother had wrapped her in so that her arms were bare.

“Now, hold out your hand.”  From the packet, he took a long thin metal object, a little like a skewer, but without a proper point.  “Take this,” he instructed her.  He got behind her a little, and held her arm way out.  “Keep it like that,” he said.  Then his voice got very earnest:  “Now, you must take what I say very seriously.  I’m going to light this, and it’s going to burn.  With lots of sparks—bright, bright sparks.  You _must_ not try to touch them.  And don’t touch it when it’s burning, or even afterwards.  It’s going to be hot.   _Really_ hot.  You’d burn yourself.”

“Like the brazier?” she murmured, for that was also metal and hot.

He seized on it:  “ _Yes_ ,” he said quickly.  “Like that.  So you _must_ not touch, you understand?”

She nodded.  There was a spark beside her—from a flint, she supposed, though it smelled funny—and he reached out to the tip of the metal, which suddenly caught fire.  Not fire like flames.  It sparked bright, sparks that shot out wide in all directions.  Startled, she let her arm droop slightly; and Uncle Andrew grabbed her quickly, but not hard, and held her arm way, way out.

“Don’t touch,” he warned again.  “It’s very hot.”

She could feel the heat on her hand, though she held the metal at the very far end away from the sparks.  She stared at them, her eyes dazzled.  They sprang away, zagging like lightning without thunder or rain, tiny bolts of godfire from Olympus.

Gently, Uncle Andrew guided her hand in circles.  The dazzle held in the eye for a moment, leaving a trail on the black sky.  She drew circles and squiggles on the sky with the sparks as the fire burned down the wire, until finally it fizzled out.  She turned her dazzled eyes to Uncle Andrew.  He asked her if she’d like him to light her another.  She nodded, silent with the terror and joy of holding a tame thunderbolt.

Nothing she had ever seen was quite so thrilling as those dancing, fleeting sparks.


End file.
